Leaving The Pines at daybreak found me paddling blind, enshrouded in a deep, cold, wet fog. I actually got going south for a while, as opposed to east, before I realized I had better get the compass out or end up I know not where.
Back on track, I made the take out at the Ranger’s cabin, set up Karta, made my way to the TransCanada highway bound for the bridge crossing over the French River.
There’s another larger, more famous, more well-known French River that drains Lake Nipissing into Georgian Bay. That river, not this little creek misnamed on my maps as a river, was something to be reckoned with. Something of note and import.
Just before the bridge, I see a trail-head sign. Paul Kane Trail. I don’t know any Paul Kanes. I trudge up the last bit of incline and see the bridge but no river. Steep banks crowd the bridge and ageless,broken rock is all that forms the forest floor. I see no way off the highway other than straight down.
Standing on the bridge, looking straight down into the rapids, I’m weighing only bad options against worse. My plans for the day are disappearing as fast as the current far below me now can sweep them away.
Cursing way too loud, a car slows, than stops at the opposite end of the bridge. I’ve sworn too loudly I’m sure and someone is wondering if I need a ride to an institute.
The stranger approaching flings her arms out and yells across the void ‘Bert! It could only be you! That guy canoeing across Canada!’
It’s Arlene Robinson, headed into town and a tad late for an appointment. She tells me that Paul Kane, a famous Canadian painter, best known for his iconic renderings of Voyageur life, based one of his better known works near here on this French River and not the other. I mention the trail head marker and Arlene nods vigorously. ‘Yes! That Paul Kane. The place must be close…’
In a few minutes she is gone and I am emptying the canoe onto the shoulder.
of the highway. I quick trip down the slope is confirmation enough. There is nothing to be done save stumbling headlong down the rock.
Head down and gingerly picking my way down the slope, I am surprised by the faint impression of a trail leading off to the left. On a whim, against better judgement and practice, I go left. A Frostian fork most certainly less travelled.
In no time flat, I am standing on a well constructed, well maintained wooden platform with this: